Chapter 64: The leader of the free world

The day and evening had proven hectic, and it was only as dusk fell that James managed to find time alone with Serenity. She’d gone up to an abandoned Cuban restaurant on the 17th floor with views of Brooklyn’s downtown core. The restaurant was gloomy with the growing darkness, the colors bleached out, the no doubt vibrant murals depicting life in Havana grown faded and gray.

“There you are,” said James, crossing the small waiting area, passing the hostess stand, and navigating the tables to where Serenity sat at the gorgeous bar. No doubt it had been she that had turned on the bottle backlights, so that everything glittered and shone.

Serenity sat with a glass of some mellow-colored liquor before her, fingers slowly tracing the circumference. She’d texted him her location, told him to come talk.

He’d not asked any questions.

Grabbing a stool, James took the bottle of whiskey, leaned over to grab a glass from behind the bar, and poured himself a finger. “How you holding up?”

“What are we going to do about Bjørn?”

James took a sip and pursed his lips as he worked the whiskey around his mouth. It was still weird to be drinking such good stuff consistently.

Serenity turned to glare at him. “The man’s a psychopath. I mean, we already knew that, but now there’s no denying it. You need to tell Hackworth. You need to get rid of him.”

“All right.” He set the glass down and hunched over it. “Say I do. Bjørn gets kicked out of Blue Light. What happens next?”

“What the fuck does it matter?”

“Becca follows him.”

“So let her go, too. We can replace them with new recruits.”

“Sure. But where do they go? What do they do?”

Serenity frowned. “They go to fuck-town and get fucked. Who cares?”

James didn’t answer at first. He tilted his glass from side to side, watching the liquor slide about within.

“Fine,” said Serenity, sitting back. “Tell me where they go, oh wise master.”

“I couldn’t keep Sarah. I saw it in her eyes. This hoorah environment wasn’t for her. Or a good number of the old DRC. How many people did we lose, agreeing to Hackworth’s plan?”

“I don’t know. A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”

“Cindy told me a hundred and thirty-six. Where do you think they’re doing right now? You think Sarah’s hiding under a bridge? They fought together, they connected with folks like themselves.”

“So you’re saying they stayed in touch? Like as if the DRC were prison, and now they’re out and working together?”

“Something like that. Say it’s an informal network. We showed them the benefit of working together. Why would they go back to being solo? I’d wager they’ve formed teams of their own, are working out of sight to keep leveling, keep killing demons. Maybe they got out of town. Maybe they drifted to Long Island, or into Jersey, or hell, I don’t know. But what do you think Bjørn’s first move will be once he and Becca are kicked out of Blue Light?”

“To go find those people?”

“Sure. The man is defined by his sense of superiority. He can’t feel superior if he ain’t lording it over someone. I wager he’d go find the folks that left the DRC and stoke up their anger, their resentment. Twist what happened here so he looks like a noble victim and set himself up as their leader. He said some scary shit to me out on that porch, Serenity.” James looked at her sidelong. “New aristocracy, how Fabricators need to fall in line and shut the fuck up and do what they’re told. I think Bjørn’s really excited by these developments. I think he sees a chance for him to become an old school king, ruling through Inspiration and whatever Benediction he ends up choosing.”

“So…?”

“So.” James frowned. “There are no good options. Sure, the easiest option would be to cut him loose. Kick him out, headache gone, and we focus on our work. But I’ve a feeling that would come back to bite us in the ass in a big way down the line.”

“So keep him close?”

“Where we can keep an eye on him. His power doesn’t work on me. I think my Arete’s too high. If I can placate him, give him enough authority that he thinks he’s getting something, then we can keep him from going completely rogue and becoming a real monster down the line. I’ll make him the platoon sergeant. That might be enough to take his edge off for now.”

“I don’t know.” Serenity raised her glass, lowered it. “I don’t know if I can keep myself from breaking his jaw. Or maybe we should just shoot him in the back of the head. Problem solved.”

James sipped his whiskey, watched her.

“The way he looked at me while I was fighting his command.” She flushed and looked down. “Not the first time a guy’s looked at me that way. The first time…”

James grimaced. Let the silence drag out, then gave a curt nod. “I hear you. I’m sorry. You want him gone, you give me the word.”

“Just like that?”

“Of course,” said James. “Bonnie and Clyde, remember?” His grin was rueful. “There’s no way I’m going to ignore what you want in this.”

Serenity licked her lower lip, raised her glass, lowered it again.

They sat in silence, considering.

James looked past Serenity, past the empty tables, and out the tall windows at the city. Lights were coming on, but the streets seemed quiet.

“So no to just killing him?” Serenity raised an eyebrow. “Slippery slope and all that?”

“Yeah, I’m not about to start executing people I disagree with,” said James wryly.

“Fine. Then… I don’t know, I’ll think about it.” Serenity’s voice was quiet. “But thanks. For listening. For letting me have the choice.”

“Of course.” He took another sip. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think all this Blue Light business isn’t going to last. Society, civilization, it’s all going to change. Bjørn might be right on that account. But when everything is lying in ruins around us, you and me will still be standing. Together. I don’t mean to ever lose sight of that fact.”

Serenity studied his face, as if seeking a hint of deception, and then smiled tentatively and raised her glass. “Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Amen,” said James, and finished his drink.

* * *

The next two weeks were the busiest of James’s life.

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It felt as if six or seven things were constantly happening at the same time, as if the very world around him were evolving at a faster pace than he could keep track of, and no matter how diligently he worked or sought to stay abreast he never felt caught up.

Group Blue Light, an idea, a rough coalition of disparate individuals, came into reality. Through the careful insertion of experienced lieutenant colonels and captains recruited from other special forces or handpicked by Hackworth, their own triads morphed into cohesive units. Three triads formed a platoon under a captain, and James found the Hydra’s matched with Medusa and Dragon in Alpha Company and led by Captain Torres, an unflappable and resolute Texan who, while only being Supplicant 2, earned his authority through sheer resolve and overwhelming physical gifts.

Platoons would head out on patrol frequently with matching platoons from Second Group, doing large laps of their Area of Operation, moving slowly down avenues so that their presence could be felt by the locals, looking for errant Nem1’s to snipe, and getting used to how best to move through an urban environment. Group Two’s know-how rubbed off on their own folk, and soon it became second nature to have someone always watching their six.

The hives were terminated in a series of overwhelming operations that focused on leveling as many of Second Group’s units as possible. First Group would escort these green companies in, watching carefully for signs that they were about to be overwhelmed, and intervening only as necessary.

Given that the men and women of Second Group were recruited from the army’s finest, they needed very, very little hand holding, and soon were almost uniformly in the high Supplicant ranks.

When James wasn’t on patrol with his platoon or doing marrying up drills with Second Group’s forces, he was moving amongst the battalions, visiting a different one each day, shuttling to and fro on his Zero.

Those were some of his favorite moments, spearing down near empty avenues on the electric bike, fire-axe strapped to its side, standard issue pistol on his hip, weaving between abandoned cars and exploring the city as it evolved and adapted.

For slowly people began to emerge from their apartments, and James started to see the best of humanity on display. Neighborhoods came together to repair damage, to open streets, to bury their dead. Windows were either replaced or boarded up, Manna bread was freely distributed, and sometimes James even saw kids playing on the sidewalks again.

The sight filled him with a terrible hope and crushing sense of pessimism.

None of this could last.

The demon symbols in the sky had proven resistant to even Smite-enhanced attacks, and the military had chosen to ignore them even as scientists and analysts sought to understand their nature.

With eleven days left till Nem3, a research group out in Stanford finally cracked the code behind the black gems, and found that by casting Healing Grace on them while within the aegis of a Circle of Protection they could be opened and the energy within their cores released to flow back into the comatose victims who’d been lain low ever since they fell to the Nem2’s.

News spread across the world, and for a glorious afternoon images and videos were shared of the near-dead awakening, rising bleary eyed and stiff from their week-long slumber to universal celebration.

Being the CSM meant that he was both a member of the rank and file yet also not; it took some time for the regular Blue Light folk to overcome their suspicion and stop thinking of him as a mole for Hackworth. It didn’t last long, but for a few days James would arrive at battalion Forward Operating Bases and be greeted with hesitancy and reserve.

But it never lasted. His manner overcame suspicion, and when it became clear he was willing to go to bat for regular operators, he started to be welcomed again.

When he wasn’t on the road visiting the FOBs or out patrolling with his platoon, he was with Hackworth at the Headquarters and Headquarters Company, sitting in on discussions of morale, planned training sessions, updates from across the country, or simply providing Hackworth with room to vent his frustrations.

Hackworth’s XO, Major Baker, was as dour and negative as he was brilliant and resourceful, which made him at once invaluable in managing all the varied aspects of running the force as he was a drag on morale and cohesion.

“Just get rid of him,” said James one evening in the near empty conference room. Hackworth stood before a huge touchscreen, slowly moving around a map of NYC and examining their deployments.

“Were this a regular situation, and we had a year to get combat ready before returning on tour, I might. But we have seven days till Nemesis 3, and I can’t afford the disruption.” Hackworth turned to stare at him. “I also can’t afford to send you to Washington, but we’ve no choice in the matter.”

“Washington?” asked James.

“The White House, to be precise. The President’s asked for a high-level meeting with key people to review our preparation for 3-Day, as it’s being called, and specifically mentioned your name.”

James’s eyes widened in shock. “What?”

“Tomorrow. We’re to be in the situation room at 10 a.m. We’re flying in late tonight and will review my presentation on the plane. Don’t worry, I’ll handle the conversation. If the president asks you anything, you answer questions simply and directly.”

James pulled out a chair and sat.

Hackworth’s smile was sympathetic. “You didn’t expect to be summoned by the President of the United States this week?”

“Or any week.” James rubbed the back of his neck. “He knows my background?”

“I’m sure the CIA has presented him with a file. Now, whether he’s read it or not, I can’t say.”

“But…”

“Why does he want to see you?” Hackworth sighed. “Look. Think of it this way. What is the president?”

“The leader of the free world?”

“Well, that, but more than that. He’s a symbol. People ascribe far more power to presidents than they actually have. They’re blamed or credited with economic rises and falls beyond any one person’s comprehension. But a president is expected to represent the best of us, to speak for all of us, to give us a sense of shared purpose and identity. I know that’s rarely the case, but if any one man in this country appreciates the value of a symbol like yourself, it’s the president. Your influence on recent events has been huge. It’s entirely possible there would be no Blue Light if it weren’t for you.”

“That was mostly Jessica’s doing.”

“Perhaps. She’s a formidable woman. But she couldn’t have done anything without you to work with.”

James frowned but said nothing.

“Blue Light groups are being formed in every major city across the country. Our setup here is being used as the template, and nobody who signs up to serve is unaware of who you are and what you’ve done. Whether it’s earned or not, you’ve become a symbol, James. The self-made man who rose from tragedy to lead a militia against the demons, whose example inspired thousands to flock to NYC, and whose leadership led to the defeat of the Fourth Wave. Not every city has done as well as we have, and some have fared far worse: look at what happened in Newport, for example.”

James considered the colonel’s words but remained still.

“It will be a brief meeting.” Hackworth’s tone had become final. “The president wants to hear directly from us, and we’ll simply tell him everything we’ve been doing and our plans for 3-Day. I’ll field any questions he might have, and then we’ll be shown the door. Do you own a suit?”

“A suit?” James blinked. “That a rhetorical question? Sir?”

Hackworth snorted. “Not a problem. We’ll get you a dress uniform. You’ll look sharp. Our flight leaves Kennedy Airport at 21:00. We’ll leave here at 19:00, so let your company know you’ll be gone. I’ve already notified the officers.”

“Yes sir,” said James, rising to his feet. “I’ll be ready.”

“I know you will.” Hackworth turned back to the touchscreen map. “I’ll see you soon.”

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